


pick it all up (and start again)

by bugbee



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dad Spy, Family Bonding, Family Feels, Father-Son Relationship, Funerals, Gen, Grief, Mother-Son Relationship, Reunions, Spy is Scout's Dad, Spy is emotionally constipated but he's trying his best, Temporary Character Death, The Naked and The Dead spoilers, Trans Male Character, Trans Scout, minor OCs - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-27
Updated: 2021-02-23
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:20:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24307324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bugbee/pseuds/bugbee
Summary: The clues had always been there, he had just never wanted to see them. Maybe neither of them had, instead content to deny the truth before their eyes for the rest of their days because it was better than confronting the alternative. Except Scout had died, and Spy wasn’t able to keep on pretending for his last moments. A part of Jeremy was glad for it, despite the simmering rage and betrayal and hurt.So when he tried to look God in the eye and tell Him that Tom Jones was his father... He couldn’t. Not really.(Scout discusses his parentage with God, and stays dead for a little while longer. Well. A lot longer.On the plus side, he gets to attend his own funeral reception.)
Relationships: Scout & Scout's Mother, Scout & Spy (Team Fortress 2), Scout's Mother/Spy (Team Fortress 2)
Comments: 36
Kudos: 194





	1. wayward son

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Jeremy](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23484811) by [supercasey](https://archiveofourown.org/users/supercasey/pseuds/supercasey). 



> Right so I read 'Jeremy' from supercasey and basically became bombarded by Scout family feels, so I wrote this instead of studying. Please go read it, it's an incredible fic with gorgeous characterisation!

Scout would admit that he wasn’t the smartest. He couldn’t read books without the words dancing around on the page, couldn’t sit still long enough in the first place to force them to make sense, and was always better with a bat than with a pen. It used to bother him as a kid, especially when he saw his other brothers get into college and make something of themselves, slowly building a stable life while he always seemed to lag behind. He’d learned how to run so he could catch up with them, but somehow he’d fallen to the wayside regardless.

Ma never minded though. She never pushed or prodded or lamented over her youngest son’s failure. Instead she’d kiss his cheek and tell him that people were smart in different ways, and that just cause Danny could do maths like a rocket scientist, and Ricky could write things that would make poets weep, and Lenny could run the family bakery just as well as Ma didn’t mean he was worthless. Her sons were special in different ways, and he’d just have to find what fit him best.

Scout wasn’t the smartest, but he could be clever when he wanted to be. Back before RED, when he was still in high school and the star of the baseball team, he’d learned how to strategize for future games, had to learn how to plan ahead so they could win. He got good at learning to predict things, at connecting the dots to build a clearer picture of what strategies the other team was using, picking out the truths from the feints.

(“Just like ya father,” his Ma would coo when he told her, and fuck, didn’t it all make sense now.)

Except that had fallen apart after he got kicked out of school for beating the shit out of his coach. He couldn’t regret it though, not when the sister of Ricky’s girlfriend came up to him with tears in her eyes and thanked him. Sure, he got kicked out, but he also got the bastard fired and unlikely to ever work at a school with young girls again.

Point being, Scout wasn’t smart, but he wasn’t a moron. When Spy tried to tell him something as he was bleeding out, before he disappeared and used Tom Jones instead, Scout knew what was really going on. Listening to Tom Jones’ earnest, but hoarse voice telling him he was his father, calling him _Jeremy_ and that he was _proud_ -

Well, it was obvious who was really saying it. Spy might have been a spy, but even Scout could tell when he was being sincere.

The clues had always been there, he just never wanted to see them. Maybe neither of them had, instead content to deny the truth before their eyes for the rest of their days, because it was better than confronting the alternative. Except Scout had died, and Spy wasn’t able to keep on pretending for his last moments. A part of Scout- No. A part of Jeremy was glad for it, despite the simmering rage and betrayal and hurt.

So when he tried to look God in the eye and tell Him that Tom Jones was his father... He couldn’t. Not really.

“But your father isn’t-?”

Instead of insisting that the fantasy of Tom Jones was real, Jeremy sighed, and let himself sit down for a moment. God joined him soon after, an anticipatory silence resting between the two of them.

“...Yeah. Yeah, I know. Figures I’d hafta face it sometime."

Jeremy couldn’t deny the truth that had stared him in the face as he bled out, the smell of cigarettes and metal being the last thing surrounding him. He couldn’t let that quiet admittance go to waste, even if God said he could go back and live again.

“It’s him, ain’t it. Spy,” he said softly, staring out into the golden paradise before him. A warm hand patted his shoulder.

“Yes. Though I think you knew that already.” God’s voice was gentle and kind, and for a moment, he felt like a kid again, wrapped up in Ma’s blankets as he waited for her to come home.

“Like, I knew Ma was still in contact with him, yannow? She tried ta hide it, but every so often she’d come home just... so freakin' happy. It was obvious. She had that same smile on whenever she’d tell me about him. And it just- It just proved that I wasn’t enough. I was never enough. Why else would he only want to see my Ma and not me, his son, if that wasn’t the case? For fuck’s sake, he was more of a dad to my brothers than me.

“Tommy told me all about how he didn’t care that Ma’d been married before, or that she’d had seven kids. He told me that he neva ignored them, neva pretended they weren’t there, not like her other beaus. He was around long enough for them to know him, but the second I became a thing? Poof. Gone.” He couldn’t stop the bitterness that rose within him as he spilled all of the poisonous thoughts he’d tucked away in his mind for so long, the words tasting like blood and tears and the unshakeable feeling of inadequacy.

“You’re allowed to be angry,” God told him, hand still a comforting weight on his shoulder, and Jeremy sighed again, the rage softening ever so slightly.

“Yeah, I know that. I just- I wish someone had told me. Sniper knew. Heavy knew. Spy and Ma knew. Why did it hafta take me dying for me to know? For him to regret it? Why wasn’t I worthy before that?”

“He said he was young. Afraid. Perhaps he didn’t know to handle it?”

Jeremy scoffed loudly, the sound echoing through the clouds.

“Yeah, right. Maybe. But he was ready to be in a relationship with a woman who had seven kids? He was ready for that responsibility, but not a kid of his own? What about later? Why couldn’t he have showed up later, just ta say hi? I know he has the emotional capacity of a constipated rock, but-!” His voice rose again, wobbling at each word, but before he could continue his rant, all the fury and anger bled out into resignation.

“Christ. Look at me. 27 years old and falling apart cause daddy didn’t want me.”

Jeremy scrubbed his face with a hand, and tried to force whatever liquid was trying to make its way to his eyes away. Sobbing like a baby was just going to be pathetic for everyone involved. God remained quiet for a moment, before His hand squeezed his shoulder gently.

“I think you have every right to be upset. Your parents tried to do what they thought was best for you, but perhaps that wasn’t what you needed. Perhaps it wasn’t even what was best for you, but what was best for them. But I believe that in the end, they both love you dearly. Your father especially.”

“Sure had a funny way of showin’ it.”

“Well, you were the one who said he has the emotional capacity of a constipated rock. Maybe he simply... didn’t know how to be a father. He’s been many things in life, but a father? That was something he had never faced. He treated your brothers kindly but that doesn’t mean he saw them as his own. They were important to your mother, and as your mother was important to him, he treated them with respect. But you... you were different. You’re his son. His only child, whom he can’t help but love, even though it kills him to admit it,” God explained softly.

“But why couldn’t he have just... told me?”

“Jeremy, you were so deep in denial you were about to believe that Tom Jones, a man who was five years older than you, was your father. The family resemblance is uncanny.”

“Point.”

They both fell silent again, and Jeremy watched the soft clouds drift by, eyes wandering over to the golden staircase every so often. He wasn’t sure how long they sat there together, God remaining a comforting presence as Jeremy mulled over everything they had both said, of what he had seen and admitted. God had said he’d have to get going soon, but... he wasn’t quite ready to face Spy yet. What he would even say or do.

Well. He had some idea.

“I’m not gonna forgive him immediately.”

“As is your right.”

“And I’m gonna sock ‘im in the face first chance I got.”

“If that’s what you need to do.”

“And I ain’t gonna call him dad or pops, or whatever.”

“You’re under no obligation to.”

“Good.”

Jeremy went quiet again, fingers tapping the soft cloud beneath him, letting himself linger for a few last seconds. Finally, he stood up.

It was time.

“...I should probably start headin’ off then,” he sighed out, and God nodded softly.

“Indeed. It would be best to return before your body begins to completely decay. Or gets blown to smithereens by that crazed engineer.”

“... _What?_ ”

“Hurry along now! And we’ll see you later!” God chortled out, hurrying him over to the stairs, as Jeremy tried to yelp out questions. But before he could receive any answers, he found himself stumbling down the golden steps, watching the pearly white clouds above him slowly dim and grey into concrete and metal.

With a gasp, Jeremy Donovan woke up, and became Scout again.

Pain flared up in his side, and he winced at the reminder of the wound that had ultimately caused his death.

“Shit,” he swore hoarsely, trying to sit himself up against the blood smeared wall. They couldn’t have even taken his body outside? At the very least, it would have meant he wouldn’t be in danger of being blown up. Grabbing onto the nearby leg of a robot corpse, Scout slowly hauled himself up, holding back a scream of pain as he stood up and tried to walk. He stumbled along the corridor, bloody hands leaving streaks of red behind as he hobbled towards what he hoped was an exit. 

In the distance, he heard a boom.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck-!” he hissed out furiously, forcing himself to walk even faster. His ribs shrieked in pain, and something hot began to slide down his side again. Shit, he must have opened the wound up again. The light in the distance was growing closer, and Scout prayed that he was almost out, that he could see his family again, and-

“Dear goodness me, looks like you’ve had a nasty fall,” a stern voice called out, and Scout squinted at the hunched figure before him.

“Who-?” he tried to call out, but his lungs finally seemed to revolt against the broken ribs stabbing them, choking his voice out into a whisper. His vision blurred, and if this was what God meant by ‘later’, then he was going to wallop Him. Scout's legs finally gave out on him, and he collapsed to the ground. The patter of footsteps came up beside him, and he felt a hand against his shoulder.

“Well, that doesn’t look good.”

The world went dark.

* * *

Scout was hot. Not in the sexy way, though he was definitely that as well, but more boiling hot. Had Ma wrapped him up too tightly in his covers again? He cracked an eye open, blinking out the crust and gunk to focus on the wooden ceiling above him.

“Ma?”

Pain lanced through his side as he spoke, and he let out a gritted hiss.

“Sorry, but no,” someone replied with a distinctly British voice, someone who was decidedly not his Ma. Scout yelped, trying to twist out of the covers. He should not have done that, he thought grimly as his skin screamed out in agony, and apparently, the voice agreed.

“Jesus Christ, don’t move around you idiot, you’ll pull your stitches and reopen your side. Here, let me help.”

The person gently unwound him from the blankets wrapped around him, and Scout caught a glimpse of his... jailor? Rescuer? An older woman peered back at him, face set in an unimpressed scowl as she prodded at his side.

“Ow, fuck, don’t do that!”

“Lad, you’ve been knocked out for the past few days in a delirious fever, let me bloody check if the infection’s gone down,” she told him sternly, eyes narrowed as she examined the most painful area. She tutted softly, but removed her fingers, instead placing a cool hand on his head.

“Fever’s down,” she noted, “but you’re still feeling a bit warm. Best to keep an eye on that. You hungry? Thirsty? 'Bout to piss yourself?”

“Uh... all three?”

“Lovely. Right, up you get then. I’ve tried to give you as many fluids as possible, but now that you’re lucid, it’ll be easier. Especially the clean up.”

“I’m... sorry?” Scout had no clue what was going on. He probably should try to attack this woman or demand answers, but right now, he was more focused on not throwing up on her feet. Or pissing on her. Enemy or not, you didn’t do that to someone who looked like your grandma.

“Don’t apologise, lad. You’ve been through the wars. God knows it looks like it out there, and I served. At least they can’t cancel my lease here. Perks of being a cleaning lady. Well. Former one probably. They don’t pay me enough to clear out rubble.”

Scout tried to focus on the low droning voice of the woman assisting him to the bathroom, and quietly hoped she wasn’t going to help him piss. Thankfully, she let him do his own business, but kept the door open and stayed close by.

“You haven’t got anything I haven’t already seen. I was a nurse, then a fighter pilot, lad. I’ve seen far worse,” she told him when he peered nervously at her.

One embarrassing piss later, she escorted him back to the bed, offering up a full glass of water and some soup. He downed the water without a second thought, and immediately focused on consuming the soup, stomach gurgling desperately for it. As he ate, the woman had retrieved another glass of water, and seemed content to sit close by and knit while keeping a watchful eye. Scout wasn’t quite able to finish all the soup, but she didn’t seem to mind, instead taking the bowl out, refilling his water, and taking out a packet of bandages.

He finally decided it was time to get some answers.

“Hey, uh, not that I’m not grateful that ya saved my life, but... who are you? Where am I? What- ow! Happened?”

“Well, I arrived to the main building to do my usual evening clean up, and found the place a bloody mess. That includes you by the way. Thank God those walls were destroyed, because scrubbing blood off of walls is a full night’s job. As for the rest of your questions... I’m Maisie, and you’re in my house, on Mr Mann’s island. Well. Former island,” she replied, picking apart his dirty bandages none too carefully. He glanced down, and tried not to gag at the crusty shit flaking off.

“And... you’re a cleaning lady?” he asked, wincing as she dabbed at the stitches in his side with an alcohol covered cloth.

“What, you didn’t think that those suited arseholes were gonna clean the place up themselves did you?”

“No, I s’pose not. You said it was destroyed?”

“Yeah, some dickhead with metal legs blew the place up. Tried to get you too, before I put a bullet in his face.” Her voice was amused, and Scout gulped.

“Thanks... for that. Did’ya... see anyone else?”

If it really had been a several days like Maisie said, then it was likely that the rest had fucked off already. Leaving him behind to be blown up.

“There was a group of people, but they left in a hurry once things started to blow up. I was a bit more preoccupied in keeping your guts in place,” she explained dryly, carefully wrapping the clean bandages around his side.

His heart pounded furiously, and he couldn’t help but tense, ignoring Maisie’s disapproving look at his movement.

“And none of them tried to return to the building before then? None of them?” He wanted to be hopeful that maybe one of them would have gone back for him, even if it was just an attempt.

But Maisie looked at him with something like pity in her eyes.

“No. I’m sorry, lad. One of them looked like he wanted to go back, but the explosions started before he could.”

He swallowed roughly.

“Was he wearing a mask?”

(He didn’t know why he wanted her to say yes.)

“Er, no, it was the big lad.”

(He didn’t know why he was surprised that she said no.)

So out of all of them, it was Heavy who wanted to go back. Not Spy. Not his actual fucking father, who once again proved he couldn’t give a shit about him. He let out a strangled laugh and leaned back, digging the heels of his hands into his eyes.

“I dunno what I even expected,” he muttered out thickly, trying to pretend that it was sweat leaking down his eyes.

Maisie didn’t say anything in return, but she seemed a lot gentler in bandaging him up.

Neither of them mentioned his wet cheeks.

* * *

Recovery was slow, but steady. Maisie was a Godsend, biting out caustic remarks in response to his own smart ass comments as she watched over him and tended to his wounds. If she’d been a few decades younger, and actually interested in men, then he’d probably have chased after her. Instead, he gave out shitty pick-up lines and tried to dodge the fist he’d get in return.

Still, Scout knew he couldn’t sit around forever waiting to completely heal, not when he had to go back to his Ma and brothers, and let them know he was still kicking. Then he’d demand his share of the money from Miss Pauling, try and punch Spy in the face, before leaving it all behind him and never thinking about any of them again. He’d support his family, maybe raise his own someday, get a good job he enjoyed and-

Well. He could dream a little. There wasn’t much else to do since Maisie refused to let him up from bed to go run around, instead piling boring old books beside him to read. And when she found out he couldn’t always make sense of the letters, she’d taken it upon herself to teach him. It was slow going and mind-numbingly boring, but it distracted him from everything else.

By the time he was finally allowed to get up and walk around, Scout insisted to return back to the mainland as soon as possible, much to Maisie’s chagrin. They ended compromising on another three days of rest, and then she’d fly him back to the US.

“What, did you think I swam here? I’m a bloody pilot, lad. I have to get the groceries somehow,” she’d explained with a snort when he expressed shock over the fact that she had a working plane with her.

“So you could drop me off right at home?”

“Landing in Boston is too tricky, also it’d attract a lot more attention than I’m willing to suffer through. I’ll drop you off at close to Peabody. Less people around there,” she told him begrudgingly, and he’d cheered at her words, throwing an arm around her to pull her into a hug.

“Thank you Maisie. You’ll gotta come by and visit now and again though, Ma’ll wanna have you round for dinner at one point,” he exclaimed, grinning at the scowl on her face.

“Get off me you skinny lump, you’ll tear open your stitches.” But she didn’t push him away, or refuse his offer to visit, so he counted that as a win. She was just a gruffer, meaner, British June, he noted, snickering in his mind. God forbid the two of them ever meet, they'd either be at each other's throats or cause the world to burn down.

It was a bright morning when they set off, Scout practically bouncing up and down in his seat in excitement, babbling on and on as Maisie flew her plane.

“Sammy’ll go nuts I think, he always was the biggest mother hen outta all of us, though not as much as Ma of course, but he’s got this nice fancy job at a bank, a bank! Can ya believe that? He’s married too, had a kid a few years back, though I wasn’t able to visit on account of... uh, my own job. Still, who was it who paid off Ma’s mortgage? That’s right, it was me!”

He continued to chatter on about his brothers, the memories a familiar comfort as the anxiety began to set in. What if they didn’t think he was really Jeremy? What if they hated him? What if Miss Pauling killed him because the paperwork said he was dead?

That’s if Ma didn’t beat her to it, cause God knew that she’d be furious.

Shit. What if Spy was there?

“I can hear you worrying from here. Shut up, and stop thinking. You’ll be fine,” Maisie called out to him, voice as gruff as ever, and he forced himself to relax.

This was his family he was talking about. And if Miss Pauling did come after him, then surely the team would stop her. Junie at least would beat her off with a stick, before turning it on him for worrying her. Either that, or Miss Pauling would succeed in terminating him and his family would have to go through the grief all over again.

No, that was a fucking terrible thought. He’d just have to... bank on her not killing him. And if Spy was there, then he’d get to punch the bastard sooner, before going back to ignoring him just like he obviously wanted to do.

Scout swallowed roughly, and turned his attention to the view outside.

God had said that Spy loved him as his son, but... well, it was hard to believe that. Who knew if Spy’s last act had just been another façade to make him feel comfortable, borne out of some sort of guilt or favour to his mother? Maybe Scout would just have to take some responsibility for once and actually... talk about it all like adults. It gave him hives, but while the furious side of him wanted to cut off all ties, the small child that just wanted to _know_ stayed his hand.

One honest conversation, that was all he was gonna ask for. And if Spy refused, then... well, then Jeremy had his answer.

“You still fretting?” Came from the cockpit, and he shrugged.

“Nah, just thinking about whether my dad actually loves me or if I’m an inconvenience in his life that just happens to be related to him,” he called back, ignoring Maisie’s amused snort.

“You’ll do alright, lad.”

Before he could respond, Scout’s eyes caught on the buildings of Boston, and he couldn’t help but press his face against the glass. Home. He was almost home. Back with Ma, with Sammy, Ricky, Lenny, Tommy, Matty, Danny and Freddy. Hey, no-one ever said his Ma was creative with names. Still, the anxious ball of worry in his chest dissolved into something more like excitement and childish glee.

Before he knew it, they began their decent down into the outskirts of Peabody, and Scout- No. _Jeremy_ was practically vibrating. In an hour, he’d be home. He’d be able to give his Ma the biggest hug he’d ever given her, would even hug all of his shithead brothers, just so that he knew he was back.

And then they landed, and he was faced with Maisie’s stern demeanour, the softness he’d come to notice glinting in her eyes.

“Well, here you are lad. It’s been... something,” she said awkwardly, and he let out a loud laugh, before tugging her into a tight hug. She hesitated for a moment, before patting his back clumsily. He didn’t hold on too long, and soon let her go, instead trying to look at her as earnestly as possible.

“Thank you, Maisie. No, seriously. I’d be dead without you. If you’re ever in Massachusetts, stop by, will ya? Seriously. Just ask for Jeremy Donovan at Julie’s Bakery in Eastie, and you’ll be welcomed like family, I swear.”

“Yeah, yeah, so you said. I’ll drop by at some point, I guess, but don’t count on it,” she muttered in response, but gave his shoulder a warm pat. “You look after yourself, Jeremy. You’re a good kid. Chatty and crazy, sure, but a good’un. Don’t mess up my hard work in keeping you alive, you hear me?”

“Loud and clear! See you soon, Maisie, yeah? This ain’t no goodbye!” He waved frantically at her as she climbed back into her plane, giving her a cheeky two-fingered salute and grinning as she scowled at him in return. And then she took off, and Jeremy was alone.

Well, he wouldn’t be for too long. He wasn’t fond of hitchhiking, but with no money in his pockets and the strong desire to stay out of jail for a while, it was his only option.

He’d take it though, if it meant getting home sooner. He wandered out of the large, empty field Maisie had landed in, trying to work his way down to a main road.

And thus began the waiting game.


	2. parent weeping

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uhhhh i'm so sorry this took so long, i was struggling with spy's characterisation whoops. hope you enjoy it anyway! leave a comment if you did!

Scout’s blood was staining his jacket. 

The same jacket Spy had just refused to give to Sniper, had told the bushman he would get it over his cold, dead body.

Scout’s, Jeremy’s blood was staining his jacket. His son, who was dead in his arms, who barely even knew that he was his son. The child he had held when he was born, who he had vowed to protect, even if it meant staying away-

Spy's chest hurt, heavy and harsh, the pain in his knee a mere paper cut compared to the agony he felt wrapped around his lungs.

His son.

His son was dead.

It struck Spy suddenly that he had only held Jeremy three times in his life. The first, when he was born. The second, when he took his first steps. And now he held his son for a third and final time, his body seemingly as small as the other two times. But the stillness was new. Jeremy had never been never quiet. He was loud, constantly talking, chattering away about anyone and anything to whomever was closest enough to hear. Just like his mother. It infuriated Spy sometimes, yet it was a trait he had grown used to.

But Jeremy wasn’t talking now.

He’d never talk again.

It didn’t suit him.

Spy forcefully pried his fingers from the still-warm body of his son, laying him down on the concrete floor with a gentleness he had never truly shown Scout in life. How ironic that it would take his death for Spy to acknowledge their relationship, to treat his son with the kindness he deserved.

“Rest well, my son,” he murmured softly in French, reluctantly pulling away from the boy. He could return later, could bring him back home to Julie and his brothers, where he belonged. But right now they had a job to do. A job his son had died for.

What a pointless death.

He’d grown used to seeing his son return back from the dead, and a small part of him was just waiting for the silly boy to step out from a hidden spot and holler out insults and jokes at him.

A beat passed.

No-one came.

It was quiet.

He’d grown used to his son coming back.

He wasn’t used to him staying dead.

“Let’s go,” Spy said curtly to Sniper, stepping away from the still body behind them. Compartmentalisation was a handy thing in his profession. It allowed him to slip out of his thoughts and into another person. It had never struck him that he would have to use it to bury the sudden grief that welled up in him at the sight of Jeremy bleeding out, slowly, softly, quietly, until nothing remained.

Sniper seemed to hesitate for a moment, torn between offering comfort or some other platitude he didn’t need.

“Should we bury ‘im?” The bushman asked gently, and he scoffed.

“If you’re hiding a shovel, rinse it off and give it to me. I could use a weapon.”

The Sniper did not rise to meet his response. Instead he looked at him with something like grief in his eyes.

“I’m so sorry, Spy. He was a good kid.”

Spy did not clench his fists and grind his teeth, did not break down weeping and sobbing. Instead, he marched on ahead, the stabbing pain of his knee barely noticeable. Right now, he was the Spy with a mission, whose teammate Scout had died. He was not Pierre Dubois, the man who had just lost his son, Jeremy.

(And yet his chest would not stop aching, heavy and hollow that had nothing to do with his previously obtained injuries.)

“Stop wasting time and start moving. The others will need our assistance.”

“Yeah,” Sniper replied quietly. “I ‘spose so.”

They made their way outside in silence, and by the time they reached the rest of the group, it seemed as though most of the fighting had finished. Soldier and Heavy’s sister were naked and covered in honey for some reason, and he used them as a silly distraction from the rest of the world.

“Where’s Scout?” Miss Pauling asked through gritted teeth, clearly at the end of her wits.

“Dead. What is the next course of action?” Spy said curtly, cigarette already burning between his fingers, the acrid smoke filling his lungs and smothering the soft agony in his chest.

A silence seemed to fall upon the courtyard, though he could still hear yelling and grunting in the distance. Heavy, he deduced, noting that the large man was missing, alongside the good doctor. Perhaps Scout could have been saved if Medic had been around. Maybe he wouldn’t have died, and would be beside him right now, loudly chattering about the most inane things. It was a useless thought, and he shooed it out of his mind.

(Spy didn’t hate people. It was beneath him. But in that moment, he thought he might have hated the Medic.)

“Scout’s what?” Miss Pauling’s eyes were wide open, shock and confusion lining her face. For someone so secretive, she was quite expressive. Spy took another drag of his cigarette.

“Scout is dead, Miss Pauling. Are we going to continue wasting time, or will we continue towards our objective?” His voice was flat, words not betraying a hint of emotion concerning Scout’s death. Miss Pauling reared back as though he had slapped her, fingers tightening around the phone in her hands. Even Soldier appeared startled.

“The maggot may just be sneaking a nap! In fact, we should probably go check him out and wake him up for deserting his American duties!” Soldier boomed out, but there was a hesitation in the American nuisance that Spy rarely saw. He wanted to bite out something scathing in return, but the bushman laid a heavy hand on his arm.

“No, mate. Robot managed to get him while he was fighting. He’s gone,” Sniper said softly.

“Both of you,” Miss Pauling called out, voice trembling, “are you sure?”

“Yes,” Spy finally hissed out, yanking his arm from Sniper’s grip. “You think I would not know when a man is dead?”

Not a man.

Boy.

His son.

His tongue felt heavy, the barrier he had placed between the acceptance of what had happened and the need to be present in the moment creaking precariously. He swallowed, the only outward sign of his turmoil, and forced his mind to stay steady. He could mourn later, away from prying eyes.

“ _Shit_. Okay, okay. Scout’s dead. There’s no Australium left. Right, well, there’s no way this day can get even worse, is there?”

Apparently it could, given the way Miss Pauling shrieked when she saw the destroyed Life-Extender on the floor once they regrouped with Heavy and Medic, turning to verbally eviscerate the classic BLU Heavy. Spy only listened with half an ear, carefully examining the rest of his team to keep the barrier up. He slowly flicked his eyes back to Miss Pauling at her triumphant declaration of: “And you’re dead!”

She gave a victorious smirk after he finally died, but it quickly fell off her face as she caught Spy looking at her. He wondered what she saw in him that made her fumble. Wondered if his barrier was too weak, too soft, if the grief he refused to feel was shining through him anyway. He stayed silent, and she turned away.

“Right. Okay. Head count, are all of us-,” she choked on her words, pausing for a moment. “Is everyone alive here?”

“Ah, nyet, little Scout is not here,” Heavy pointed out, blinking at the tense set of Miss Pauling’s shoulders.

“Scout is dead.”

The large man’s head snapped towards Spy, face twisting into something mournful and sympathetic.

“I am sorry, my friend.”

Spy’s frown deepened, and he tried to wave him off, ignoring the renewed ache in his bones. Did everyone know he was-? Not now, he told himself. They were still on a mission.

Medic opened his mouth to say something, but was interrupted by the shrill sound of Miss Pauling’s phone ringing. They all turned to watch her snatch it desperately, glasses askew as she held it to her ear.

“Hello?”

“You know, if we get Scout’s body before we leave, and I have... ah, enough money, I could potentially bring him back to life, wissen Sie?”

Spy froze at the sound of Medic’s voice, the man having shuffled over to him to be closer. There was an amused smile on his face, and Spy’s stomach clenched. Miss Pauling sounded agitated in the background, but he couldn’t bring himself to focus on her words. Not when his mind zeroed in on what the Medic had said.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you don’t think Sniper just shrugged off those bullets like it was nothing, oder? Nein, nein, I am perfectly capable of reviving the dead. Scout would be no issue at all. Of course, given the state of your leg, I would have to ask dear Heavy here to retrieve him.” Medic shrugged towards Heavy who had joined them. “It is your choice, as his Vater.”

His hands dug painfully into the board he was using as a crutch, eyes glaring at the smugly grinning man before him.

There was no choice. No decision to make, not when it concerned his son and living in the same sentence. Not when it meant Jeremy could return home to his mother, that Spy wouldn’t have to tell Julie that her son, _their_ son was dead.

“I would retrieve Scout no matter what Doctor said,” Heavy offered up, and Spy swallowed.

“Yes. He’s in the building, third floor, left room,” he said softly, voice betraying no emotion whatsoever. Then, even quieter: “Please.”

Heavy nodded once, large hand patting his shoulder.

“You will have Scout back soon, and it will be all good,” the larger man said cheerfully, slowly heading towards the aforementioned place, but before he could get far, Miss Pauling spoke up.

“Everyone, that was Engineer, we need to leave right now. The Administrator is on her way to-”

Before she could finish her sentence, an explosion went off behind them, blasting most of the buildings to pieces. Heavy was still barely a few steps away from the group, body frozen from the sudden destruction. Spy felt his stomach lurch, and Medic tutted softly.

“Ah, well... I don’t think even my skills extend to ash. Es tut mir Leid, Spy,” he said, but Spy wasn’t listening. All he could do was look at the rubble where his son had rested.

And Spy couldn’t divide himself from Pierre Dubois anymore, couldn’t stop the crashing wave of grief and rage that seemed to flood his bones.

Miss Pauling shouted at them to leave, and the group hurried along to the forgotten helicopter. Spy barely noticed himself being pulled along, eyes glued to the explosion site, throat dry as another swell of anguish bubbled up.

Jeremy was gone.

His son was gone. 

* * *

A mother knows when something is wrong with her children. A good one at least.

Julie Donovan liked to think she was a good mother. Maybe not the best, but she did what she could as a (mostly) single mother of eight boys. So when a heavy nausea curled up in her chest for a week and refused to leave, she knew something had happened. It was the same unease she got when Freddy got hit by a car, when Tommy got into a knife fight with a crazed gangster, and finally, when Jeremy was kicked out of high school for beating the crap out of his coach. 

It was her youngest son that currently worried her. When the uneasiness first started, she’d rang up every one of her sons, and almost all of them confirmed their safety. Jeremy didn’t. She wrote it off as him being busy, since he had mentioned being embroiled in some sort of volatile company takeover.

But then the days began to pass with no word. The sick feeling grew stronger.

And then her wayward lover, the father of her youngest showed up at her doorstep with a blank face and a pristine letter stamped with the logo of the company they both worked at.

Something had gone wrong.

“How badly is he injured, Pierre?” Julie asked softly, not even attempting to wrap him into a hug. Not when she didn’t know where Jeremy was. Not when her baby could be hurt in a hospital.

He did not respond. Instead, he gently took her hands and led her onto the couch.

This was wrong. Everything was wrong.

Please, she begged in her mind. Please, let her be wrong.

“Julie.” Pierre’s voice wasn’t the smooth hum she’d grown used to over the years. It wavered softly, strayed from the ever present confidence she knew he had. Something in her broke.

“Please, Pierre. Please.” Tell me my baby’s okay, almost tumbled out of her lips, but it died down as she watched his eyes shut. The grip on her hands grew tighter, and before she knew it, he had tugged her into a trembling hug.

“I’m sorry.”

He didn’t have to say more. He was clear with his words, his face, every movement in his body that spoke of loss and grief.

Someone was screaming, a piercing echo that rattled in her mind over and over.

Oh, she thought distantly, through the tidal wave of grief and denial that swept her feet away.

Oh.

She was the one screaming.

She was suddenly hyperaware, the dreamy distance she’d tumbled into dissolving like sand between her fingers, forcing her in the moment. The shrill keen in her throat scraped along her throat, but the pain was nothing compared to the tightness in her chest, the agony that throbbed in her heart.

Her boy. Her son.

Gone.

Pierre was talking softly to her, but she couldn’t listen, her hands desperately clawing at his suit jacket as she wailed into his chest, a rising crescendo that seemed to deafen her to the world around them.

Jeremy was gone. Her baby boy, the youngest of her kids, was gone. A sob tore its way out of her throat, heaving and broken as the realisation sunk into her skin like a brand. A dam broke through the screams, and she wept with her soul, a howling wail that poured out of her chest and into the world around her.

He was gone.

He was gone.

He was gone.

She’d never hear his voice again, never see his grin or the way he lit up when he spoke of something he loved. He would never call her Ma again, would never complain loudly at the dinner table when one of his older brother’s stole the last of the mashed potatoes, would never sit beside her when the nights seemed too long and short, would never grab her into a tight hug that said everything he was too embarrassed to say out loud.

He would never properly meet his father. Pierre had told her about their strange rivalry, about how he couldn’t quite bring himself to tell Jeremy who he was, how he would lash out in an awkward attempt to protect their son. And now it was too late.

Pierre’s grip on her back grew tighter, his face buried in her hair, and she let out another choked sob, the grief building up in her throat.

“Why?” She wept out, the word tearing free from her mouth. “ _Why_?”

Her lover had no answer for her, but Julia could feel her hair grow damp.

“I was with him, when...-” He choked, and his silent grief made the ache in her heart grow stronger.

“He... he wasn’t alone,” Pierre said finally, words trembling like the hands on her back, and a broken sound spilled from her lips.

No-one had told her that grief would feel like being torn to shreds. No-one had told her of the agony that would beat in her chest instead of her heart. She hadn’t expected it to feel like this. She’d never expected that she _would_ feel like this. But what mother expects to outlive her child?

Julie Donovan _howled_ in agony, face pressed against her lover’s chest, and wondered if this was what it felt like to have your world shattered into pieces.

She would never see her youngest child again. Would never hold her son again. Would never hear him talk again.

She didn’t stop her scream this time.

* * *

The funeral was... quiet. Quieter than he’d ever see the Donovan family be, and Spy couldn’t help but hold the weeping Julie just a bit tighter. It was all so wrong. The rest of her sons stood close by, looking younger than he’d seen them in a while, and he bowed his head. His face still ached from where Matty had thrown a punch, grief and rage causing him to blame the older man for his youngest brother’s death, and while Spy could have dodged, he didn’t. After that, Matty had just collapsed and sobbed into his shoulder, choking out apologies while Spy tried to comfort him. It had been a long time since he had seen all of Julie’s sons, but just as he remembered them, they remembered him. And just like when he first came into their lives, they let him in again after Matty had punched him.

The funeral was quiet, and it set him on edge, made his teeth grind and bones ache, because it was wrong. It was wrong of them to be so quiet, it was wrong of them to be so shattered, it was wrong that Jeremy wasn’t here, wasn’t alive and with them, it was _wrong_ -

Spy’s teeth pierced through his lip, and the taste of blood flooded his mouth, coating his tongue and throat in the sour iron taste. Julie’s hand around his chest tightened, and he looked down to see her staring at him with tear-filled eyes.

“You’re allowed to cry, Pierre,” she whispered, voice hoarse from crying, and he flinched as though she had struck him.

“I have not cried in a long time,” he replied softly, eyes drifting back up to the casket, “I believe I have forgotten how.”

Julie let out a choked sound, and buried her head into the crook of his neck.

“Then I’ll cry for you, you stubborn bastard.”

His eyes burned, and he ducked his own head down.

They all fell silent as the casket was slowly lowered into the grave. Julie wept bitterly, drifting from his hold to grab on to her other sons. Spy watched how she gathered them close, as though they too would disappear if she didn’t keep them nearby. He wondered distantly whether Jeremy would have lived if he had done the same. If he had held on to his son and never let go, rather than running, just like he always did. If he had taken his body rather than leaving it, if he had went back sooner, if he had noticed the explosives earlier-

Spy was not a man of could haves or should haves, but the aching, screaming part of him wanted him to know that Jeremy could have been alive right now. He could have saved him.

His eyes drifted shut, and the world around him became muffled and distorted.

What a failure of a man he was, unable to cry at his own son’s funeral. Spy had failed Jeremy many times in his life, but even now, even now when his son was dead and gone, he still could not be the father his son deserved. He shuddered softly, and a warm hand came down on his shoulder. Sammy looked at him with wet eyes, and gave him a sad smile, holding his own daughter close.

“We can tell you ‘bout him... afterwards. I know you kept tabs, and that ma sent pictures and stuff, but... that isn’t the same as anecdotes. You... you would have been proud of him, I think.”

A strangled sound escaped Spy’s lungs, and he couldn’t stop his body from shaking. The rest of Jeremy’s brothers shuffled close by, kindness in their eyes despite the tears dripping down their cheeks. He could still see the children he had known in their faces, but... they were not children any longer, were they? They were men, some with families of their own, and Spy let out a shaky sigh.

“I was already proud of him,” he forced out, words sticking in his throat, and Sammy nodded.

“I know,” the other man said gently, “we all were.”

Spy reached up to scrub his face, fingers digging into his cheeks as something wet dribbled down his cheeks.

“I can... tell you about him during Mann Co. If you wish,” he muttered out, and he heard a shuddering breath.

“Yeah. Yeah, we’d... we’d like that, I think.”

None of them spoke for the rest of the funeral, instead holding on to each other as they tried to stay afloat with the realisation that Jeremy was gone and wouldn’t be coming back. Ricky gripped onto him like he was eight again, Spy couldn’t stop himself from resting his own hand on the younger man’s shoulder, his other hand tangled in Julie’s. The family lingered after the service, none of them quite ready to leave just yet. It wasn’t until May, Sammy’s daughter, started to grizzle that the rest of them finally forced themselves to pull away.

The walk back to the bakery was quiet, his hand holding onto Julie’s tightly. He felt exhausted, drained out and hollowed, even as his chest continued to ache.

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Lenny swore, “what asshole would wait by a store that’s currently _grieving_ -?”

Spy lifted his head to spot a figure waiting by the bakery, and his face wrinkled in disgust.

“Do you wish me to deal with it?” he offered, but Lenny shook his head.

“Nah, Matty and I can handle it. We’ll just yell at ‘em for a bit till they fuck off.”

“You’d think people would be considerate,” Matty spat out, slowly rolling up the sleeves of his shirt, before stalking over to the bakery.

“Hey! Bastard! Can’t you fucking read?”

Matty suddenly stopped in his tracks, mouth dropping open. The figure stood up slowly, and Spy squinted, unable to quite make out who they were.

“Oh, I am fucking dreaming.”

“You alright, Matty? What’s- Jesus fucking Christ.”

The figure gave a blinding grin.

“What’s with the long faces? You look like someone’s died!”

“You asshole,” Freddy choked out, and his son, his _son_ , winked.

“I prefer Lazarus,” Jeremy grinned, face vibrant and alive, eyes crinkled as though he had just told some amazing joke, and Julie screamed, wrenching herself away from him to throw her arms around her not-dead son, tears streaming from her eyes as she sobbed out his name. Jeremy’s brothers crowded around the two, slapping him on the back and punching him in the shoulder, but they too were crying, and Spy-

Spy stared at his smiling son, and laughed so hard he wept, watching his family from a distance with blurred eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <https://bugbeee.tumblr.com/>


	3. alighted welcome

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I decided to split this up into two because I felt super bad about how long this chapter has taken. I can promise that the next (and last!) chapter should be up fairly soon, once I've tweaked it a bit. For now, thank you all so much for the support, and I hope you enjoy!
> 
> EDIT: changed the chapter name bc like a fool, I forgot what the first chapter was called and named this one the same. so. that has been changed
> 
> [tumblr](https://bugbeee.tumblr.com/)

“Closed for funeral of family member- what kinda bullshit is this? Did someone else freakin' die?!”

Jeremy had only just arrived at his Ma’s bakery, since the last driver had been nice enough to drop him off here as he’d had a delivery close by. But he hadn’t really planned for it to be closed. He could break in, sure, but the chances of Old Cara spotting him and calling the coppers was too high. It had happened far too many times when he was a teenager coming back from some party or other. Ma was not pleased. He could always ask Benjamin next door if he knew where the funeral was being held, since if someone else had keeled over, then he’d want to say goodbye.

Mind made up, he stomped over to the bookshop beside the bakery, and walked in.

“Oi, Benjamin! Are ya there?” He hollered out, snickering at the startled sound coming from the backroom.

“ _Ben-zonna_!” Jeremy heard being shrieked out from the back, and before he could open his mouth again, the man himself came hurtling out. “I swear to all that is holy, if- Jesus fucking wept, _Jeremy_? You’re dead!”

“Tales of my death were greatly exaggerated,” he replied coyly, leaning against the counter and grinning at the pale face of the shopkeeper.

“No kiddin’. Oh, boy, do I not want to be you when Julie finds out. Cause then you’ll be really dead. How are you not dead, by the way? I heard you got blown up.”

“Now that's a long and lengthy tale which usually I’d love to talk about, but apparently someone else's freakin' dead, and my family’s at their funeral. So, I’ll tell ya after?” Jeremy offered, but Benjamin looked at him with a mixture of horror and disbelief.

“Jeremy, _zine beh-sechel._ It’s your funeral they’re at. Are you sure your brains didn’t explode during your supposed death?”

“...Well shit. No use for it, Imma have to turn up and show ‘em I’m not dead. Say, Benjy, where’s the f-?” Benjamin cut him off before he could speak further, arms waving frantically at him.

“Get out, _lech tiz-day-en_ , I’m not getting involved in your schemes again! Just... wait outside the bakery or something. Besides, I sincerely doubt you’ll even be able to get up to Mount Hope in time to cause any disruption, freakish speed or no.”

“Oho, now that’s fancy. What would they even bury? S’not like they had my body or anythin’,” Jeremy pointed out, and the old man shrugged, pushing him gently towards the back.

“Funerals are for the living, blah blah blah, who knows. Look, if you must be a nuisance, then give me a hand in getting some new books out of the boxes and putting them on the top shelves. It’ll keep ya out of trouble, if anything,” Benjamin said gruffly, giving him a final shove towards several stacks of crates filled with books.

“Oi, I’m still injured- Why the hell do you even have so many books?! No-one ever even comes here!”

“Ah yes, and the resident idiot would know that because he comes by so often into my store, hm? Stop yammering, and get stocking.”

Jeremy gave a low grumble, muttering a few choice words towards the store owner, but obeyed nonetheless, careful not to irritate his stitches. His Ma used to dump him here when he was younger, said it would build character and give him experience. It was family tradition at that point, since all of his other brothers had done it as well. Benjamin had always been kind in a rough sort of way, and he’d sometimes come out of it with a dollar if he did really well.

“Say, Benjy... how did Ma and the others take it? If ya know,” he asked after a few minutes, heaving books out and placing them on their respective shelves. For a moment, Benjamin didn’t respond.

He wondered if the older man had even heard him. But before he could ask again, Benjamin let out a heavy sigh.

“Badly, Jeremy. Very badly. I’ve known Julie since we were both kids and... I don’t think I’ve ever seen her that distraught. And your brothers, God, don’t get me started. I think it’s the first time they all gathered together without beating the shit out of each other.” The amusement in his voice was humourless. Jeremy ducked his head down.

He’d known on some level that his death would be a blow to his family. After all, despite his attempts otherwise, he was always treated like the baby of them all. He was a good 12 years younger than Sammy, the eldest, and it had meant he always lagged behind the rest of them. Hell, even Freddy was five years older than him, and Freddy was the second youngest. Of course, that never stopped them from hazing Jeremy and being little shitheads to him, but that was just how his brothers worked, and he eventually caught up to them in that respect too. In the end, he was their youngest brother, and while they’d never say it, they loved him, just like he loved them.

He tried to imagine the pain he’d feel if one of his brothers died, suddenly, without warning, without even a body-

Jeremy bit his lip, hands twitching nervously. He’d be fucking destroyed, that’s for sure. Cause while his brothers could be assholes, they were still the assholes who beat up other kids for making fun of his slow reading. They were still the ones who’d sit with him and let him cheat from their old homework when he got stuck. He remembered the hollow sort of agony he felt when Ma told them that Freddy got hit by a car, and they didn’t know if he was alive or not.

Jeremy wondered if that’s how they all currently felt. Freddy had lived thankfully, but they’d all quickly known that he’d only broken a few bones. With Jeremy... it was different. They couldn’t check up on him in the hospital. They couldn’t ring up the doctor and ask him how he was doing. In their minds, he was dead on an island they’d never be able to go to.

“Are- Are they okay?” Spilled out from his lips suddenly, and he turned around to look at the sad eyes of his old neighbour. Benjamin gave him a pained smile.

“No, son. You died. How could they be okay after that?”

He snapped his mouth shut, teeth clicking harshly against one another. What could he say to that? If Maisie had had a phone, then he would have called them. He hadn’t had the cash to stop at a payphone and ring them up, nor had he really thought about doing it in the first place. He’d been so focused on going home that the full implications of what his ‘death’ meant hadn’t really hit until now.

“...I think I’m gonna wait by the bakery.”

“Yes. Yes, I think that would be a good idea.”

The heavy gaze of Benjamin followed him as he left, heart pounding in his ears as he desperately hoped his family would be back soon.

* * *

Jeremy felt like he was nine years old again, squatting at the doorstep of the bakery waiting for his Ma to get home from her errands. At least back then he could toss a baseball around, but now all he had to entertain himself with were his thoughts. He let out a frustrated groan, leaning back to rest his head against the door. When were they coming back?

It was strange to sit at the doorstep and watch the streets of his childhood around him. It seemed like everything and nothing had changed. Houses looked older, more tired, but there was still a joy in them that he could always find back here. It wasn’t the richest area, but the people had always managed to find the best in life, living their days with smiles on their faces and a quiet happiness he couldn’t quite see when he was younger. Now though, now he looked at his neighbours, old and new, walking down the streets with a soft satisfaction in their bodies, and he felt... complete. Happy.

He had missed Boston.

Teufort had been fun, but it hadn’t been home. Not the way Boston was, the way it always would be.

“Dear God, Jeremy?” An old voice croaked out, and he whipped up his head to look at the narrowed eyes of Old Cara.

“You’re still alive?” he blurted out without thought. The outraged expression that bloomed across her wizened face was so familiar, that he couldn’t stop a choked out laugh from escaping his lungs.

“I should be asking you that!” she yelled out, hobbling over and hitting his leg with her cane. “You think it’s funny? The grief you gave your mother, boy, if were I any younger, I’d give your hide a good tanning!”

“Ow, ow, Granny Cara, stop that, I’m injured! Old lady assaulting an innocent bystander over here!”

She ignored him and hit harder, scowling down at him. What was it with old women bullying him? First Maisie, now Cara... Though to be fair, Cara had been forced to deal with his handsome self since he was a toddler. Anyone could go insane from being with such a talented child for too long. Another thwack of the cane jolted him out of his thoughts, and brought him back to her ranting.

“-just like your no-good father, I swear. Your mother has the patience of a fecking saint, I hope you know that!” She appeared to lift her cane for another smack, but let out a shuddering sigh instead, dropping it back down to the floor and shaking her head.

“She was absolutely inconsolable. You better have a bloody good reason for this, Jeremy,” she said quietly, and his stomach lurched.

“I didn’t mean to, honest. I got... hurt real bad, and didn’t even know that everyone thought I was freakin’ dead until I got back. I was in a coma up ‘til a few days ago. Scout’s honour.”

“You got kicked out of the Scouts for hitting a boy in the head with a baseball bat.”

“I was framed! It was an insider job-!” he protested, but fell silent at the shake of her head.

“I don’t fecking care about the Scouts. Don’t go derailing the bloody conversation, you sad sack of balls. In all my years, I don’t think I’ve ever seen Julie this upset, do you hear me? And I’ve known her since she was a young lass.”

“I know. I’m sorry, Granny.”

She hissed out some air, and beckoned for him to stand up. Jeremy did so warily, staring at her cane as though it would leap after him and give him another bruise. But instead, Cara simply reached out to grab him and hold him close.

“Silly lad. It’s not me you should apologise to. Even though you made me cry too. God knows why, you’ve been a pain in my arse since the first day your mother dropped you off. I even would have gone to your funeral if it hadn’t been so far away,” she murmured gently, and he leaned into the hug, burying his face in her shoulder as though he were eight again and had just skinned his knee.

She smelt like old people, but there was still the soft sting of lavender and ginger, a smell that used to make him wrinkle his nose in disgust as a kid, but now... it was comforting.

“Sorry, Granny,” he mumbled out again. She nodded once, before finally letting him go, watching him with a sharp eye.

“I’d stay with you, just to make sure you don’t get up to more trouble, but if I don’t go home soon, then Irene’ll be up in arms again. She thinks I’ve been sneaking off to the pub! Ha! Don’t tell her, but I’ve been knitting her anniversary present with my knitting group. I have to leave it at Simon’s, or else she’d find it!” she explained easily, slipping out of the conversation they’d just had with practised ease, and Jeremy couldn’t stop his fond smile. As scary as she was, Cara had been a constant growing up. It was good to see her still this lively.

“Say hi to her for me, will ya?”

“Of course I will!” she said sharply, eyes narrowing in disapproval. “She was devastated by the news. You’re one of her birds after all. Now that you’re back though, she’ll want to see you, she was talking about making you a new compressor last time you visited.”

At that, Jeremy grinned.

“Actually, there’s no need for that.”

“What? Jeremy you’ve had that compressor for years, it must be in tatters-!”

She broke off as he lifted his shirt to show his flat chest off. Medic was a freaking weirdo, but he did an absolutely great job with this.

“Look Granny,” he said cheerfully, “no tits.”

“...well I’ll be, no tits.”

Cara leaned forward curiously, examining the scarring with a careful eye.

“Where did you find someone to do this? If you went to some dodgy half-wit, I swear-,”

“No no! It was the company medic, super talented guy.”

“And... there was no issue?” she asked softly, and he could have sworn she sounded concerned. But he quickly shook his head.

“Nah, ‘meat iz meat!’ according to him.”

“Hm.”

She prodded for another few seconds, before moving back, looking at him with badly hidden fondness.

“I’m happy for you, Jeremy. You’re a pain in the arse, but I’m glad you were able to get this. Hell, is that stubble I see, or did you forget to wash your face again?” Cara tutted, reaching out to examine his chin, before a wide grin took over her face.

“It _is_ stubble!” she exclaimed happily, pinching his cheeks, and while he let out a token protest, he couldn’t help the swell of pride in his chest as she cooed over him.

Cara left a few minutes later, not without wrangling a promise from him first to stay put and stay out of trouble, before heading off on her own way. He watched her go, leaning against the bakery door until she faded from sight with something warm in his heart. Only then did he settle back down on the doorstep, legs jittering with nerves and his usual untameable energy. He’d never been able to sit still, always up and about, and it had made his teacher’s go absolutely insane. Ma had never complained though. She just set him loose on the streets until he came back exhausted and with a grin on his face.

...He really wanted his Ma.

Sinking back down to the curb, he couldn’t help but wish he had nabbed a book from Benjy’s store. Sure, it would take a while to muddle through a page, but Masie’s patient lessons had improved his reading speed somewhat. Instead he was left to absentmindedly draw shapes with his foot on the pavement, pretending to see shapes and figures instead of just scuffs.

“Hey! Bastard! Can’t you fucking read?”

Jeremy yelped at the sudden cry, head snapping up to look at whoever had yelled, and he felt his heart stutter.

Matty.

His family.

_Ma._

His throat clogged up, even as he stood up to greet them, words rushing through his mind as he tried to decide what to say to the family who had thought he was dead, who had just come back from his funeral, who were still _grieving_.

Somehow, it was easy to slip into a casual position, throw up a grin, and think up of some suave words to say.

(He could fall apart later. Right now they needed him. Happy, stupid Jeremy, who loved his family more than anything and needed them to know this.)

“What’s with the long faces? You look like someone’s died!” he called out, tears springing to his eyes as he watched his Ma cover her mouth in shock, eyes wide in desperation.

“You asshole,” Freddy choked out, and Jeremy couldn’t stop the conspiratory wink he sent back.

“I prefer Lazarus.”

Ma screamed and threw herself at him, arms coming around to squeeze him tightly, loud sobs escaping her body.

“My boy, my boy, my baby,” she wept out, and he couldn’t stop his own tears.

“Hey Ma,” he whispered out hoarsely, pressing a kiss to her head. He felt his brothers crowd around them, could feel their own warm hands reaching out to grab him, just to make sure he was real and there and-

He let out a shuddering breath, burying his face into Ma’s soft hair and tried to pretend he wasn’t crying alongside her, because for a moment...

He had thought he’d never see them again. That his Ma would never know what happened to him, that his brothers would have been left with more questions than answers, that he... he would never get to hear Spy confirm what God had told him. Properly this time, without the visage of Tom Jones obscuring the truth.

The sound of laughter, heavy and choked was what caught his attention, and his head lifted to look at the older man standing a bit away from their family, laughing even as tears streamed down his face.

“Hey, Ma, don’t mean ta interrupt, but... who’s the weirdo?” he whispered. Except from the way the man flinched, he had probably heard him. Jeremy narrowed his eyes. He looked familiar. Like a distant memory of someone he had once met, but never really seen again. The shape of the jaw, the thin build, the blue of his eyes when they looked at each other properly.

Oh.

_Oh._

Spy.

His dad.

‘Guess he did care enough to show up,’ he thought distantly.

Ma sniffed loudly, pressing another kiss to his brow, her hands tightly holding onto his own as she gave him a crooked smile.

“Jeremy, I want you to meet someone. This... this is Pierre. Your father.”

For a moment, silence reigned, and Jeremy knew he had several options ahead of him. He could denounce the man who had bolted the moment he was born, could see him as nothing more than a stranger he occasionally worked with, fuelling all the anger and inadequacy that had plagued him his whole life, or could grit his teeth and pretend for the both of them, but-

He was so tired of pretending. And none of those options sat comfortably. They felt too much like lies.

“Yeah. Yeah, I... I figured. Nice ta see ya finally show up, Spy. Only took you 27 years.”

Spy- Pierre- _Spy_ rubbed at his temples, sighing softly. The gentle look on his face had been replaced with exasperation, but there was something fragile to it, something that seemed jagged and forced.

“If you want me to leave, then I will do so-,” he began to say, but Jeremy scoffed, cutting him off.

“Yeah, ‘cause leavin’s all you’re good at. No. You don’t get to run again. Or pretend to be Tom Jones. But we’re gonna talk about this. Later.”

He could see Matty mouth ‘Tom Jones?’ to Sammy, but he wasn’t quite ready to open that can of worms for his brothers just yet. Maybe Ma. God knew she deserved an explanation. It was Danny in the end who broke off their staring contest, clapping Jeremy on the shoulder.

“I think it would be best,” his brother rasped out, eyes still red from crying, “if we took this inside.”

Ma nodded, but refused to let go of Jeremy, her hand still remaining entwined in his as she kept on looking at him, desperately making sure he was still there and with them. Spy (dad?) looked as though he wanted to do anything but talk, but Tommy had quickly placed his own hand on the elder man’s shoulder.

Whether it was to comfort the older man or keep him from running, he had no idea.

Spy’s sour expression would have made Jeremy laugh at any other time. Right now, it was just another tally to his growing list of reasons why God had lied to him, because what father would be reluctant to talk to the son he had thought dead?

‘Emotional capacity of a rock,’ his brain reminded him, and he let out a silent groan.

It would be so much easier to just- hate the man. But he couldn’t. Not while God’s reassurances that Spy did love him rattled around in his head, not while he still remembered the gentle way he had held him as he slowly bled out.

Not when he knew that the man had wept tears of joy at finding out Jeremy was alive.

He cleared his throat awkwardly, pressed another kiss to Ma’s head, and gently pulled her inside. The familiar walls of the bakery stared back at him, the smell of bread and pastries still lingering in the wood. Something in his heart immediately calmed down at the sight, and he couldn’t stop the fond smile on his face. Colourful handprints decorated the walls from when he and his brothers had gotten hold of some paint and decided to ‘decorate’ for Ma. Despite the mess, she had absolutely loved it. The glass cabinets where his Ma’s creations usually would sit were empty, a simple note reading ‘Discontinued until further notice’ resting inside.

Dust lined the inside. He wondered when she had stopped making her cakes, then stopped. Swallowed.

He doubted she would have been in the mood to create celebratory desserts while mourning the death of her son. He squeezed Ma’s arm again, and she let out a soft sigh, before steering him beyond the bakery and to the backdoor.

The stairs leading up were a familiar sight, and he could see scuff marks lining the wood, showing where he and his brothers had been so eager to play outside that they practically tripped down the stairs. He slowly walked up the stairs, Ma’s hand a comfort in his own, before he finally stepped out of the stairway and into the living room. He hadn’t been home in several years, but it seemed to envelop him, welcome him, as a soft warmth settled in his chest.

He was home.

* * *

They settled down in the living room, chairs dragged out from the kitchen and various rooms in order to fit all of them. Ma had pulled Jeremy onto the couch, still holding him tightly as her eyes brimmed with tears. His brothers continued brush against him every so often, as though they wanted to confirm he was here and real, and he couldn’t help but enjoy the attention. Sammy had left quickly, explaining that he was going to drop off his daughter with her mother, but not before he’d dragged his younger brother in for another hug. Only Spy kept his distance, watching with a stony face and hooded eyes.

It wasn’t until Ma reached forward to drag Spy onto the couch that everyone seemed to settle down properly. Those who had hovered before finally collapsed onto the mismatched chairs. Meanwhile, Ma shuffled him over, making sure that he was wedged between her and Spy.

It was fucking awkward, to say the least.

Jeremy fidgeted, a sour taste rising in his mouth at the sight of Spy sitting stiffly besides him, seemingly doing whatever he could to make sure they didn’t touch more than necessary. He couldn’t stop the bitterness flooding his chest.

Not even death could make him good enough, apparently.

He couldn’t even look at his brothers and Ma, ignoring their gentle requests for him to explain what had happened, and Jeremy-

He had enough. He wasn’t going to sit here and play happy family when it was painfully clear that Spy did not want to be there, did not want Jeremy there. He was done with pretending.

“Well? Ain’t you got anything to say?”

Silence fell across the room. Ma squeezed his shoulder warningly, but he shrugged her off, forced himself out of the couch and stood up to properly glare at the bastard who was his father.

“What the fuck is your problem?”

“Jeremy-!” Ma began to say, but he shook his head, scowl curling across his lips.

“No, Ma. I’m done bein’ quiet ‘bout this. I can’t just sit there and act like... like... I dunno! I just-!”

He gave out a frustrated groan, the words he wanted to say stuck in his mind while his tongue refused to cooperate. Jeremy was 28 years old, so why did he feel like a child again? He just... He just wanted to know.

What exactly, he wasn’t sure.

Spy’s mouth thinned, corners turned downward, and Jeremy couldn’t stop the sheer inadequacy flooding through his veins. He still wasn’t enough, was he? Still wasn’t good enough, wasn’t smart enough, wasn’t word-y enough. Just like always.

A lump formed in his throat, and his eyes burned. Oh fuck, if he was going cry because of this bastard, then he wouldn’t stop himself from beating the shit outta him.

“I think it would be best if we spoke. In... private,” Spy said softly, still frowning. Tommy opened his mouth to protest, but Ma nodded.

“Of course, Pierre. Boys, come on downstairs. We can get started on dinner. Jeremy... yell if you need anything.” Her voice was stern, but Jeremy could still hear the trembling undertone in her words, the hesitance to leave just in case he disappeared again. His brothers grumbled, but slowly made their way downstairs, shooting him looks as they left. But when Ma stood up, he quickly grabbed her into a tight hug.

“I’m here, Ma. No need ta worry. Make sure the stooges over here don’t ruin your great cookin’!” he told her, voice lighter than how he actually felt. A watery chuckle escaped her mouth, and she pressed a kiss to his cheek.

“Silly boy. I’ll always worry,” she murmured, before leaning in closely. “Be patient with your father. I know it isn’t easy, but... he does truly love you. Don’t let him fool you otherwise.”

Jeremy grimaced, but nodded nonetheless. He could feel her smile against his cheek, before she finally pulled away. She sent a look to Spy, something unspoken passing between the two of them. After a moment, she gave a determined nod, and turned away, heading downstairs to the bakery.

And then it was just the two of them.

Spy and Scout.

Pierre and Jeremy.

Father and son.

This was going to freaking suck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations (from Hebrew, please correct me if I'm wrong!)  
> Ben-zonna - Son of a bitch  
> Zine beh-sechel - You're fucking my brain  
> lech tiz-day-en - Fuck off (to a male)
> 
> Also, did I drop numerous hints that Scout is trans? Yep. Insert: it's my story and i get to do what i want meme
> 
> [tumblr](https://bugbeee.tumblr.com/)


	4. prodigial father

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for sticking with me this long! I'm sorry this chapter took ages to write, but I deleted my initial draft after finding it... not quite fitting. This version fits a lot better in my mind, and I hope you think so too. Thank you so much, and enjoy this chapter.

The room was quiet, even with the sound of pots and pans drifting up from below. It was strange, Spy thought wryly, how much silence had begun to bother him, when before it was all that he craved. But even with the quiet, the room was not still. Jeremy shuffled and fidgeted, hands twisting together and unfolding and tapping and twitching and-

Something akin to fondness unfurled in Spy’s chest. He’d never thought he’d find himself missing Jeremy’s constant movement, but-

(-a flash of his unmoving body raced through his mind, and he saw his son’s voice silenced for ever, hands frozen over a wound that would never heal-)

-Jeremy was not a person who was meant to stay still. Ever.

Spy could not stop himself from carefully watching the boy in front of him, eyes carefully scanning every inch he could. There were no visible wounds, but he had winced whenever Julie squeezed him too tightly. Knowing him, he was in pain, but too stubborn to admit it.

Finally, Spy let out a loud sigh, and Jeremy’s head snapped towards him, eyes narrowed in suspicion.

“We done ignorin’ the elephant in the room?” he asked testily, and Spy hummed.

“Perhaps. How are your wounds?”

Jeremy frowned, fingers reaching down to prod at his side.

“s’alright. Bit sore, but I’ve had worse.”

“Do not overdo it.”

Even as the words left his mouth, he knew it was the wrong thing to say, and he had to stop himself from wincing at his bluntness. Jeremy had no such limitations, and scoffed loudly, mouth turned down into a sneer, even as he hunched his shoulders defensively.

“You don’t get to fucking lecture me,” he hissed out, fingers twitching with nerves. “So don’t- don’t pa-patronise me.”

A familiar annoyance rose up at his son’s scathing reply, and Spy had to forcibly bite down his own disparaging retort. Being cruel would simply tear the rift between them even further, and as tempting as it was to simply... burn everything to the ground and pretend nothing had ever happened, Julie had asked him to try.

(He had to try. Even if Jeremy said he never wanted to see him again, he needed to try. He could not leave things unspoken anymore.)

“I did not mean it as a reprimand,” he said instead, grimacing at the diplomatic tone of his voice, “I was simply voicing my concern.”

“Sure.”

The room fell silent again, and even Jeremy’s twitching died down. All of a sudden, he looked exhausted, and Spy couldn’t stamp down the guilt.

“What do you want, Spy?”

What could he say to that? There were many things he wanted. He wanted a nice glass of wine, he wanted to watch the sun set with Julie, he wanted-

He wanted to face his son. Properly this time. Confronting situations head on was not a part of his expertise, and he wondered how often he hid behind Julie to evade his responsibilities to Jeremy. He did it even now, falling back onto what Julie wanted rather than what his son wanted, what his son _needed_.

“...I want to speak with my son,” he said quietly, and Jeremy’s face fell into uncertainty and hesitation.

“Right. Okay. Nice to know we’re on the same page then.”

The fidgeting returned, and Spy watched the way Jeremy moved his fingers as though he was playing an imaginary piano, fond nostalgia hitting his chest like one of Heavy’s shoulder pats.

“You used to tap your fingers like that when you were a child.”

Caught, Jeremy froze, eyes widening at his words as he carefully clenched his hands into fists.

“Ma says the same,” he offered back cautiously, and Spy- Pierre nodded.

“You started to do it after watching... after watching me play piano. It seemed to comfort you then, even though you were too young to really understand what you were doing.”

Jeremy’s eyes went distant as though lost in a memory.

“I remember listening to the piano, as a kid. Didn’t know it was you,” he recalled, and Pierre swallowed.

“Yes. I was... around fairly often, when you were very young.” His voice was quiet, but it seemed to bring Jeremy back into the present, and he gave a small scoff at his words.

“Wow, parent of the year right here, huh,” he said derisively, and Pierre sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“You asked me what I wanted before, but it seems you have no intention of taking this seriously,” he pointed out, unable to stop his frown. “What is it _you_ want from this, Jeremy? The opportunity to highlight my failures as a father? The satisfaction of rejecting me?”

Silence permeated the room, and his son stared at him wide-eyed, seemingly frozen before him. And then, with a soft murmur, he said:

“Christ. You really don’t know me at all, do you?”

Pierre reared back as though struck, the hollow acceptance in Jeremy’s voice ringing like a bell. He cleared his throat once, twice, trying to dislodge the knot lodged in his throat.

“Of course I know you. We’ve worked together for years.”

But Jeremy shook his head.

“Nah. It ain’t the same. You knew me when I was a baby. You heard about me from Ma. You read my files and kept tabs, but you never spoke to me. You knew me as Scout, and I knew you as Spy. But at the end of the day, when all that falls away? I’m just Jeremy Donovan and you’re just Pierre Du-whatsit, and those two people don’t know each other. And a part of me wonders if they should.”

For a moment, the room seemed to spin, and Pierre swallowed heavily, opening his mouth to interject. But Jeremy wasn’t done.

“You asked me before what I wanted. And what I want is to ask why. Why did it take so long? Why wasn’t I good enough to know before? Why, Pierre, Spy, _Dad_ , whoever the hell you are?” he whispered with a tremble in his voice, and it took everything in Pierre’s power not to reach out and grab him.

Of course that was how he saw it. How else could he see it? To Jeremy, it must have seemed as though Pierre was ashamed of him. As though he wasn’t good enough. Because if Spy could treat Scout like a nuisance, then how could he know that Pierre wouldn’t do the same to Jeremy?

“You were always...” he rasped out, the words lodging in his throat. But he forced himself to continue. “You were always good enough. You always have been.”

“Then why?”

The words were simple. It was a reasonable demand, and far less than he actually deserved. Except even knowing that, Pierre had to pry the words loose from his chest. He had kept everyone but Julie at arm’s length for decades, so to let another person in... would be difficult.

But for his son, he would try.

“I was... a young man, when you were born. Don’t interrupt, please... let me finish,” he interjected, and Jeremy closed his mouth, giving him a disgruntled nod to continue.

“I was young when you were born. Not as young as your mother had been when she had her first child, but still... young. My spy work was still fairly new, and while I was good enough to avoid making many enemies, it’s impossible to avoid them all. Your mother was... safe, in a way, from that. She was well-established, had several children to look after – if she died suddenly, then there would be a lot of suspicion. But with you... well, young babies pass away often.

“However, that is just one reason. Quite simply: I was not ready to be a father. I stayed at first, but once you were old enough... I needed to leave. And Julie understood that. She had raised her children by herself, and she was happy to do the same again. And yet, I find myself... regretting it. You were right, before. We do not know each other. But you are still the child I held when you were born, the child who took his first steps with me, the child whom I always asked about when I visited your mother. Ultimately, you are still my son.”

“Were you disappointed?” Jeremy suddenly blurted out, fingers tapping nervously. “That I’m a son. And not... you know.”

Pierre hummed, carefully watching the fidgeting man in front of him. After a moment, he spoke.

“By that? No. Never. I was... proud of you. Proud that you knew who you were, and did not care what those around you thought. I was- I _am_ proud to call you my son.”

The words lingered between them, and Jeremy’s nervous twitching finally stopped. The silence was uncomfortable, and the stillness even more so, but he forced himself to endure it. After what seemed to be hours, Jeremy moved, a heavy sigh escaping his chest.

“Why did it take you so long to tell me? All the early stuff... I’ll be honest, I don’t care. I never needed a dad, not with Ma and my brothers. I wondered of course, and I do wish they’d told me more about you, but it wasn’t something I missed. No, what bothers me is... is that it took me dying for you to admit it,” he explained, voice quiet in a way it rarely was.

The reminder of his death was a blow to Pierre’s chest, and suddenly, the urge to reach out and hold his son flooded him. He doubted it would be welcomed however, so he forced himself to clear his throat instead.

“You are right. I should have said something sooner, but... well. It was difficult. When we first met, I was, ah, not exactly the most polite person.”

“You called me a shit flinging gibbon with less manners than a dead slug.”

Pierre couldn’t stop his amused smile.

“If I recall, you had just loudly proclaimed that the team was ‘fucked’ with me as the Spy because ‘my stench would alert everyone in the arena where I was’,” he said mildly, and Jeremy’s face turned red.

“S’not my fault you stank,” he muttered beneath his breath, and Pierre couldn’t help but cuff him gently on the head.

“See? No manners. But this was one of the reasons. Our relationship under Mann Co was... tumultuous at best. You would not have believed me. And as you said, you were perfectly fine without a father in your life. So I thought it would be best to simply... keep it quiet.”

It was... hard to understand why exactly he never told Scout. If he had to be honest, he wasn’t quite sure he knew why either. Perhaps it was his own need for professionalism, divorcing Pierre, and therefore his son, from his work. Maybe it was nothing more than cowardice. Maybe it was because he knew Jeremy wouldn’t believe it, wouldn’t have accepted it if he had told him earlier.

“That makes sense, I guess,” Jeremy begrudgingly admitted, and Pierre couldn’t stop the thread of relief in his chest.

“I’m glad I have your approval,” he said drily, but he did not remove his hand from his son’s head. Jeremy seemed to notice this, uncertainty flooding his face. And then, in a flash, determination replaced it.

“Yanno, just because I didn’t _need_ a dad doesn’t mean I didn’t- don’t want one. And I’d want to get to know him too. If he wanted, of course.”

Jeremy wasn’t looking him in the eyes, his gaze focused on something in the distance even as the tips of his ears flushed red. Pierre, for the most part, struggled to breathe. After a moment, he finally spoke, hand sliding down to clasp his son’s shoulder.

“I think,” Pierre said quietly, “that would be something he wanted, yes.”

Neither of them spoke, a comfortable silence settling between them. But he could see Jeremy still thinking, something unspoken still weighing on his mind. He didn’t push or prod, instead forcing himself to wait patiently. It wouldn’t do to erase what progress they had just made. Jeremy cleared his throat, awkwardly looking away.

“Sorry ‘bout dying, by the way. Benjy said I should apologise. It ain’t like I wanted it to happen, but still. Also, I ain’t callin’ you dad. Not... not yet, at least,” he blurted out, stumbling over his words. Pierre blinked, before slowly nodding.

“I would not expect you to do such a thing, not unless you wished to,” he replied hesitantly, “as for dying... try not to do it again. It was... unpleasant.”

It was as close to an admission of grief he could bring himself to voice, but Jeremy seemed to understand.

“Sure. Oh, I do have one more thing though. Could you... ah, stand up?”

Pierre stared at him, unsure of what he wanted to do, and he fumbled slightly as he stood up from the couch. Jeremy followed, and for a moment, neither of them moved, instead standing awkwardly before each other. And then, quicker than he realised, a fist collided with his cheek.

“ _Trou du cul_!” Pierre swore loudly, hand reaching up to cup his aching face. Jeremy, the little fucker, simply looked at him with a smug grin.

“Ah c’mon, you kinda deserved it,” he chortled out, and Pierre tried not to hurl various French swears at him.

“Everything okay?” a voice asked, and he turned to look at Julie, her lips pulled into an amused smile.

“Just swell, Ma,” Jeremy said cheerfully, and her face softened.

“Good. I’m glad to hear that. Now, go down and peel some potatoes with your brothers. I can’t ground you anymore for scaring the living soul outta me, but I can punish you in other ways.”

Jeremy began to loudly protest, but one stern look from her quickly shut him up. With a dramatic sigh, he started to wander to the exit, though before he could leave completely, he paused. Pierre flinched back as he darted back over, expecting another punch, but instead two arms stiffly wrapped themselves around him. He gave Julie a panicked look, even as his own arms came up to pat his son on the back. It was an awkward hug and didn’t last longer than a few seconds, but Pierre could not stop himself from treasuring it. Julie pulled Jeremy into another hug as he left, before shooing him off.

Julie turned to Pierre, a soft grin on her lips.

“And you? How’d it go?” she questioned, sauntering over and leaning her head against his chest. “That’s gonna be a shiner.”

“Thank you for your observation, dear,” he said flatly, but pulled her closer. “It went... well.”

Julie hummed.

“There was certainly less shouting than I expected.”

“Yes, I was surprised as well. But he simply wanted to know... why. And he also expressed an interest in... getting to know me. As his father.”

She pulled away from him, fixing him with a curious stare.

“And you? Do you want to know him as your son?”

There was no judgement or frustration in her voice. It was a simple question. And as Pierre’s gaze caught on a picture of Jeremy as a child, toothy grin wide and shining through the frame, he could do nothing but answer honestly.

“Yes,” he admitted. “I would like nothing more.”

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr](https://bugbeee.tumblr.com/)


End file.
